


The Eternal Inquisitor

by Zinc (zincviking)



Series: A Trevelyanian Inquisition [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Trespasser DLc, Post-Trespasser, Post-Trespasser DLC, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zincviking/pseuds/Zinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dorian, Dorian,” He gasped above, and for one blessed, blasphemous moment Dorian thought it was the Maker before he opened his eyes to a sight even better. A sweaty, disheveled, <i>wrecked</i> Maxwell, cheek flushed from exertion, his biceps clenched as his hands gripped Dorian’s hips, staring down at him like he was the most precious thing in the entire world.</p>
<p>
He couldn’t comprehend, but he <i>felt</i> it. How he betrayed his beloved, the one person he loved more than anything, how he had just left with barely a thought to how Maxwell would feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially the Inquisition is disbanded, though Maxwell feels slighted by it, and leaves Thedas to it's devices by going to hide in his favorite place and everyone else's least favorite place. Trespasser armor mentioned, as well as spoilers. Just assume you'll be spoiled if you don't finish the game, though I did leave it sort of ambiguous, but sort of not, but that's just for now. 
> 
> If you've read chapter three of my completely unfinished Inner Circle and Their Inquisitor fic, you'll know why he loved the Western Approach so much, and its sort of why he feels so slighted, but maybe I'll get into that if I write the plot for this thing.
> 
> Completely unbetad and written on my phone

Dorian glared across the abysmal desert. Somewhere in this vast pit of sand and vipers was his beloved. More importantly, some would say, a man the world desperately needed again. Maxwell fought tooth and nail against the Exalted Council, but the Qunari invasion twisted the Orlesians and Fereldens to align in goals, for once, in their miserable existence. Everyone separated after that. Dorian only knew a few stories. The Chargers and their leader roamed Thedas looking for work, Thom joined the Wardens in Weisshaupt, and Sera disappeared back into the shadows to be ignored once again. Of course, everyone knew what happened with Solas, though no one knew where he went.

Similarly, Dorian mused, everyone knew what happened to the Inquisitor. Just like his predecessor, he vanished into history. Only Dorian had constant contact, not that it was much help. The crystal wasn’t letters to be tracked, though he had tried repeatedly to pinpoint the magic. But it was a loss cause. All he knew was the direction. South-west was where his heart lay, and Dorian was trapped in Tevinter, unable to do a thing. 

The Inquisition was disbanded. Even Maxwell could not deny the ease that the Qunari nearly dismantled the south with spies within his very organization. He couldn’t deny that it was only because of Fen’Harel’s spies that the mass assassination didn’t go to plan. Max had put on a brave face. Dorian called it his Inquisitor Mask. Not at all different from the ones the Orlesians wore, though much more effective. Dorian wondered how much he hurt under the mask, when he consented to have the Inquisition dismantled. 

Dorian could remember the Storm Coast the day he left. It had been raining, big surprise, and Max had came to kiss him goodbye. His red hair stuck to his forehead, and Dorian had lovingly pushed it out of the way. It was out of habit, at that point, that he reached to hold Max’s hand. Dorian was right-handed. Max’s grimace hurt more than saying goodbye, and Dorian told him sorry in Tevene and Common about hundred time before the Inquisitor--former?--had kissed him quiet. “It’ll take everyone some getting used to,” he smiled, shrugging it off. Dorian remembered he had said that about becoming Inquisitor. And now he wasn’t. 

Max had stayed on the dock, watching the ship sail away into the waking sea. Varric had caught the boat with Dorian, and gave a comforting smile when Max was no longer visible. Dorian had wondered, had Max still had the anchor, would he have been able to see the green light, taunting and teasing him, beckoning him to return? He retired to his room until they arrived in Kirkwall, wallowed in grief, only smiling when Max talked to him through the crystal. Both were delighted that it had worked. 

And that was the last time anyone had seen Maxwell Trevelyan. Josephine and Leliana scoured their connections. Not a soul who knew who he was had seen him. His family was distraught, anxious to know where one of their last heirs was. The world was in a panic. All of their heroes were dead or missing in action, after all. The Hero of Ferelden, The Champion of Kirkwall, the Inquisitor… _Of Thedas_ Dorian thought bitterly as he rode the beast of the stallion Maxwell had favored. It was the only stead that rode into the blasted desert without difficulty, and could carry all of the supplies Dorian needed to survive the place. He needed to survive, and bring Max back, because Thedas needed him. 

No one knew which way to turn except him. Dorian could’ve had an army at his back, men and women of the former Inquisition, desperate for their leader back. Their loyalty could’ve turned the Approach upside down with sheer will alone, after all. But Dorian wasn’t sure if they even knew what he looked like. His beautiful Maxwell. His body had been so _fresh_ when they had first met in the Redcliffe Chantry so many, many years ago. Now, scarred. So scarred. His face, his body...his arm. Dorian drew the cloth around his mouth up over his nose to wipe the tears away. No one knew. They heard of the Inquisitor, but what did that mean? A man in golden armor? Dorian knew he would be hiding in subtle ways, hidden in the shadows, clever and tricky, and too sly for his own good. 

But Dorian knew. And no matter how often Maxwell could escape death, he could not live without water, and the only four places in this fucking desert that had water were known to Dorian, and only three were known to the Inquisition. The Inquisition had pulled all their forces from the Western Approaches long before the Exalted Council, instead leaving only a presence along the border. Without the steady influx of gold from noble houses, it was proving far too expensive to cart supplies all the way through the blasted place. 

And luckily for Dorian, he knew Maxwell. 

  


Maxwell watched the sunrise with an amused twinkle in his eye. He had seen the fire in the distance the night before. He would’ve ridden out, but he couldn’t be sure that it was an ally. So he waited. The home he had made for himself in the oasis hidden on the far side of the continent had served him well since the disbanding of his Inquisition. It had a forge, a steady water supply, he had managed to build a home into a small cave system, and even a small garden. The rushing water of the falls of the oasis, similar to the Forbidden Oasis, though much smaller and easier to overlook, cascaded into the lagoon tucked in the cliffs behind his home. Utterly hidden, until someone came close enough to hear the water. And even then, they were usually too far dehydrated to be saved, or even realize they were close to water. 

This one, though, he noted as he eyed the horizon, was clever. A mage, perhaps, and his heart leapt at the thought of Dorian seeking him out, but it could just be a rather clever hunter. Max had met one or two of those, and offered them a place to stay for the night. The second one tried to kill him for his goods. His bones were picked clean by the vultures about a mile away from the oasis. _I should gather them, they’d be useful resources,_ he thought darkly before sighing. How survival changes someone. 

Maxwell considered the campfire as he went about his daily chores. It would be interesting to see who it was. Though his heart thrummed beneath his crystal. He already knew. And it brought a smile to his face as he carefully gathered his dismantled prosthetic, working to one-handed clean each of the pieces before he put it all together on his stump, tightening the pieces. He had perfected this art years ago, though his right hand was not his dominant hand. He had little choice, now. He smiled as he thought about the choice he had made in Skyhold so many, many years ago. He wondered what Three-Eyes would say about his creation. 

He checked the charged gem he used. It would last for another few months before he’d have to secure more lyrium, easy, since the Hissing Wastes were only a few days ride to the north east. He had discovered many lyrium mines had broken open close to the surface since the earthquakes from the Titans. He slid it into it’s place and his hand twitched as the lyrium connected with his nerves, and his mind. He had gotten the idea to use a charged lyrium gem from Cullen, though entirely indirectly. The conversation had been years ago, but when Maxwell was planning to leave Thedas behind for good, it came to him like the Maker Himself blessed him with the thought. 

He had asked him what it was like to take lyrium. It was purely curiosity, as he had no need to ingest lyrium for his own abilities. Cullen seemed to sense this, and answered, albeit haltingly, “ _Strange, but after a while...your abilities become instinct. You wield them as you would a sword, or, in your case, a bow and arrow. Without thought._ ” 

Max certainly had no idea that it _would_ work, but he had gathered as much lyrium as his dracolisk could carry. He had wanted to take Carantok, his favorite horse, but he had feared that so long in the desert, even the hardy Asaarash steed would wither. And dracolisks were basically already dead, and just as strong. 

With his arm reinstated, Maxwell, began his morning chores. Pulling water, stockpiling his nonperishable foods, taking inventory of his supplies, cleaning his home, and washing his laundry. He paused around midday for lunch, and spied the small dot on the horizon, shimmering in the heat of the sun. It would be sometime before his visitor would arrive. If they pressed themselves, which would be unwise, they’d get here by mid-evening, closer to midnight. The western sky would dark, and they’d be dead on their feet. 

“Oh, beloved, tame yourself, you’ve gotten so far, you can wait another night,” he murmured as he smeared some of the jam of the berries that grew by the lagoon’s edge onto bread. The rest of the day was devoted to his leisure, and he continued construction a recreation of Bianca. It was proving _impossible_ thus far, but he was determined. There was nothing else to do out here, after all. 

He readied dinner in the stone stove he had built, cooking some fish over fire. There was much to eat, if one was clever and unashamed as he was. He doubted his visitor would find his cleverness agreeable. Max grinned around the bite of lightly seasoned fish as he watched a campfire flare into existence. Which was why he was waiting until tomorrow to partake in the Tusket liver and eyes stew he had planned for tonight. 

  


Dorian was delighted to see the lights in the distance, but he knew that light traveled far in the desert, with nothing else to heed or block it. He could be a day or three from the source. But he knew what was that way. His amatus. Or at least his crystal. Which made his heart clench as he stopped for the night. He couldn’t kill himself to reach the man, and the desert was dangerous enough during the day. Night was an entirely different matter, and he carefully set up his wards and settled for some rations. He let the stallion of Max’s munch happily on the grain he brought along. The beast really could hold hundreds of pounds, but also ate much. Sadly, the beast had grown thinner on the journey, but didn’t seem _unhealthy_. He had to ration out the food, but he _knew_ he was close to the Oasis. The horse could eat all of the greenery there for all he cared. It was the water that was the tricky part. The horse drank more than he thought possible, and he had to summon it from deep within the earth. It was impossible some days, and he often just let the horse drink from the stores. Which was foolish, in hindsight… 

He settled back on his bedroll as the beast snorted and flicked its tail. Dorian eyed the glowing light of a campfire, or torch, his fingers hovering over the crystal, considering on contacting him. He was so certain that was where Max was, but what if he was sensing something different? He would’ve left Tevinter for nothing, leaving Maevaris to handle the magisterium by herself. She was capable, he knew, but it still struck a guilty cord in him. He had sworn that he needed to stay in Tevinter for the good of his people. And here he was, chasing a man who the world had forgotten until they needed him. 

The crystal came to life under his hands, vibrating so slightly to get his attention. He smiled without thinking, and touched it, bringing it further into activity. “Amatus,” he crooned softly. Maxwell knew. Of course Maxwell knew. The man had survived an assassination attempt by grabbing the assassin’s arm and keeping the knife within his side. He had cornered a veteran of the Great, Grand Game with a little more than a few weeks of training and good wishes and hopes and dreams of his Inner Circle. He was quick and he was sharp. Deadly. And so beautiful. Dorian sighed wistfully. 

“I dreamed of you, last night,” his gruff voice came through, all Free Marches, and sweet. It sounded like what his hands felt like, and Dorian shivered beneath the cover of his bedroll. “Can you imagine me, still, my love?” 

“Yes,” Dorian breathed, eyes closing. He could see him. So many images he had saved. Each slightly different from the last. No scars when they first met, when Dorian told him of their supposed relation and he had laughed so joyously. He had flirted back without missing a beat and Dorian had already been swooning. Not that he’d admit. It was dangerous to swoon, especially then. Their first kiss, the rough scar from a red templar sword across his cheek. Another image, when they went to bed for the first time together, his mouth and eyebrow having new scars, his hands coarser with the constant use of his bow. The Winter Palace, where he slipped between Dorian’s legs in the disgraced Duchess’ rooms, a long scar down the other side of his face, another across his chest, another down his leg. So many moments that he could’ve been taken, but wasn’t. Proving to everyone he was _eternal_. Forever. Their. Inquisitor. 

“Imagine me...what am I doing?” He whispered, and the voice thrummed through Dorian’s entire body, like raw lyrium singing through his veins. Like when they fought the dragons, shaking and swearing when they fell, Max’s whooping roar of _victory_ exciting Dorian more than the adrenaline. He could imagine what Max would do had he been here. 

“You’re pulling the blanket back,” he murmured, editing it so it didn’t sound like he was camping out in the middle of a wasteland. “Your lips are on my neck,” he could feel the scars brushing against the smooth skin and it elated goosebumps across his body. Maker, it had been _so_ long since they were physically together. Were there new scars to succumb to with a moan, and not a word of protest? He both hoped so and hoped not. “You’re pulling off my sleeping clothes, breaking the buttons, but going _too slowly, Amatus, please_ ,” he gasped, arching into the phantom touches as he imagined Maxwell running his rough hand down his chest, teasing the hair growing there, lips sucking and teeth pulling at his nipples. He pushed down the cover of the bed roll to further the fantasy. 

“No,” came the voice through the crystal, right there, yet so far away, “Let me draw it out. Push you to the breaking point...You’ll scream and your servants will come running. I’ll break you apart without being there, I’ll be slow and torturous...What am I doing, Dorian, tell me.” 

Dorian gasped, groaning and writhing under the phantom hand and lips, whimpering when they slowed in his mind. His own hand brushed where he imagined Maxwell’s hand touching. He could feel his lips trailing slowly down, and breathing over his hard cock, through his linens. He wasn’t wearing linen pants right now, favoring the more protective leather, but he imagined it all the same. Slowly a tongue moved over his clothes cock in his fantasy and he moaned weakly. “You’re teasing me...W-with your tongue, Amatus, please, let me…” 

“No, you’ve been so patient, just be patient a little longer, my love...don’t touch yourself.” Dorian halted as his hand hovered over the belts that kept his armor strapped his body, a heady whimper escaping his throat. “That’s a good boy, Dorian, you’re so good. I love you...Good night.” 

Dorian groaned. They had played his game before. Dorian had no idea if Maxwell had truly obeyed the rules of no touching until they were physically unable to continue, which usually happened by the fourth night of this insistent vocal teasing, but it certainly sounded like it. _Just wait, you redheaded bastard,_ Dorian thought, somewhat bitterly, but mostly fondly, as he gazed at the light as he drifted into a horny, hot and heavy dream filled sleep. 

  


Maxwell was cleaning the mornings dishes when he heard the snort of a horse. Since the dracolisk usually screeched, he only assumed it was the visitor that had been drawing closer and closer. He finished the chore, and dried the carved bowl before setting it into a chest near the water basin he used for such chores. He wondered if he should go out and see...but, no, Dorian would be upset that his ruse hadn’t worked. And if it _wasn’t_ Dorian, he couldn’t go out unarmored and defenseless. 

It was easy to get into the armor he had found folded neatly in a chest that was guarded by a series of too powerful demons (he blamed that on the magicks of the crossroads) when he was hunting down the Qunari. It had been so many years ago, but he hadn’t considering bringing another other armor, and making new pieces seemed so back burner lately. Sera had named it, like she had named the other bizarre pieces they had found within the Crossroads. He had kept them all, so bitter when everyone betrayed him. The Skin That Stalks. He had modified the neck, so it was more of a popped collar that he could easily sew in a hood with a cowl attached for the desert winds. 

He heard the breathing of the beast now. Did they ride a bronto all the way out here? He pulled his now so very long hair back out of his face and into a ponytail, and picked up his bow. It was based off of the design of the bow that bizarre Chantry sister in the Wastes gave him, was his home-made bow, Reaper. He eyed the rune embedded in it, remember Dagna fondly as she happily constructed a Superb Corrupting Rune before he had left for the Frostback Basin. Great times, he thought with slight self-deprecation, as he pulled the cowl up as whatever beast that was drawing closer to his home kicked up dust and sand which blew with the wind passed his door. 

He left, drawing the bow. The man was against the sun, but he could recognize Dorian’s silhouette anywhere, even with his haphazard cowl and hood. Maxwell smiled behind his own as he lower his bow, putting his arrow back into the quiver watching as the man halted immediately. 

“You brought Carantok?” He asked, disbelieving as he pulled the cowl down. 

  


Dorian saw the home, the garden, even the forge made into the side of the cliff, sheltered by a natural overhang though not too much where the smoke would become trapped. He remembered distinctly laying there with Maxwell so many years ago as the man held him, whispering a Free Marches lullaby to him. It had changed so much. But, apparently, the man who now lived here had not. Well, not much, it seemed. Dorian raised a brow, glancing down to the horse before looking back up at the smirking rogue. “You haven’t changed your armor?” He asked, just as disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re still wearing that. It’s entirely too 9:44, Amatus,” Dorian said smoothly, hiding how much he wanted to leap off of the horse and tackle Max to the ground. Instead he smoothly dismounted, straightening his leathers, and pulling his cloak back. 

“I don’t know what year it is,” Maxwell pointed out kindly. It was partly true. He had an _idea_ , but not _really_. “Your hair is longer.” He smiled sweetly, as he stepped up. Dorian couldn’t help the smile on his face. This truly wasn’t a trick of the desert. Maxwell was here...Dorian lifted his hand to his scarred but so beautiful face. Skin touched skin, and Dorian drew in a small gasp, choking back tears. 

“As is yours. I pull it off much better,” he managed to say, but couldn’t hide how his voice broke, couldn’t remove the smile from his face. 

“Debatable,” Maxwell murmured through a broad grin before moving in, capturing Dorian into a kiss that had him melting. How many years? It felt like centuries since they had touched, kissed. Ever since they said goodbye on that stormy dock in Ferelden, and he couldn’t believe they were kissing again. He couldn’t stop the tears, but he felt Maxwell’s tears mingling, and their kisses turned salty, but Dorian didn’t care as he clung to the rogue. He wrapped a strong arm around his waist, and something jutted into his back but he didn’t _care_. Max paused long enough to only tie the stallion to a post where a filled water trough sat before he pulled Dorian into the small hut. 

Dorian didn’t feel like judging the decor, but he did make an annoyed grunt as he was plopped onto the bed, a wooden beam biting into his buttocks. “Amatus, your bed is _horrible_ ,” he gasped against Maxwell’s lips. 

“Would you like me to stop so we can go get a better one?” Max asked, even as he yanked Dorian’s armor off, belt after belt coming undone. Maxwell quickly overcame any Tevinter clothing by undone every belt, decorative or not. Dorian was always annoyed in the morning, but he had to admit, it was efficient in the moment. 

“If you stop, I will bury you alive,” he whispered against Maxwell’s lips, the threat losing any and all bite as Max kissed and nipped at his earlobe. His tongue caught through his earring and tugged gently, making him groan. His stubble scraped across his own stubbled cheek. He must’ve just shaved this morning. Did he shave every morning, or did Maxwell expect- the thought was lost when Max finally freed him from his armor and celebrated by promptly sucking a dark hickey into his neck where anyone, had anyone else been there, could see. 

Maxwell tossed the armor pieces over his shoulder and Dorian’s hand quickly found the straps of Maxwell’s armor, nimble and quick fingers undoing the belts as Max continued to dark the hickey into his neck, tongue laving over it anytime he tip-toed along the line of _too_ painful, soothing it before he’d start again. It made Dorian’s fingers stutter, so unused to undressing someone, having been put to work of writing and tapping angrily on any surface whenever any moron spoke in the Magisterium. Maxwell finally took pity on him and moved away to help undo the last buckles, and yank his gloves off. As he stood, pulling himself out of his tight pants. He was tanner than they had last met, but that made sense. Dorian watched as he went about removing the actual metal armor pieces from his left arm, Dorian sat up quickly. Through the haze of want, of need, he thought _how?_

The piece that was revealed to him was beautiful. He couldn’t tell what it was crafted from, gold? No, that was too malleable, but it was beautiful. Metal upon metal, gears and rods, moving as if a muscle would, and in the center of his forearm was a glowing blue crystal, not unlike one would find at the tip of a mage’s staff. “You can stare later,” Maxwell grunted, coming over him again, capturing their lips as he ground his hips into Dorian’s. And Dorian was in perfect agreement. He had a lot of time for staring, not so much getting Maxwell in him as fast as possible, or so it felt like. 

It was just like his fantasy. Rough hands, scarred lips, tracing the contours of his body, kissing over soft skin. Not so smooth as hair grew on his travels, but it felt exquisite nonetheless as Maxwell nipped and sucked smaller, lighter marks into his skin. Lips wrapped around one of his nipples and he arched immediately into Maxwell’s mouth, a silent moan as his mouth dropped open. It had been _so_ long, and he was so eager, so ready, so, so hard. Just as he thought it, he felt Maxwell’s hand, real hand, brush over his hardened cock through his smalls. Nothing felt as good as that, and Dorian felt as if he could come right then and there. 

“Did you touch yourself?” Maxwell asked, voice heavy and rough with need, and Dorian shuddered as he thought about last night, about how Maxwell _knew_ how close he was, and how _close_ he was. Dorian shook his head, grabbing over Max’s hair, pulling the leather tie that held his hair together. The dark red locks fell around his head as he ducked it, pressing a sweet kiss to his diaphragm with a soft chuckle that ran through his body right to his cock. It twitched hard against Max’s touch and another chuckle followed. “I”m eager, too,” he whispered. 

“Thank the Maker, I couldn’t handle your blighted teasing right now,” Dorian tried for haughty, but it came out needy, and he flushed as how he sounded fucked out before he even got fucked. Maxwell looked as bad as he felt, however, when he glanced down, fingers threading through the coarse strands. His eyes were blown wide, and his lips were red. He licked them before moving up to kiss Dorian quickly. As they rutted, hips locking in place, hardened cocks rubbing against each other, still in their smalls, Dorian ducked his head from kiss and started to work on his own dark mark into Maxwell’s skin. _Mine, my Amatus,_ he thought proudly as he sucked it into place. Purple and brazen, daring ghosts of the desert to doubt who he belonged to. He should’ve marked Maxwell more when they were among people. The scandal...Dorian chuckled before it melted into a moan as Max ground down again. 

Both of their smalls were soaked with precum, rubbing roughly against each other. Max pulled Dorian’s off, letting his prick pop free and hit his stomach with a smack of flesh upon flesh. Dorian groaned again as he watched Max stripped out of his, tossing both smalls over his shoulder again to join the scattered pile of armor and clothes on the floor. In a heartbeat, Maxwell over him again, spreading his legs. He ground against Dorian’s flesh, cock rubbing against his balls, ball brushing his entrance. Dorian practically cried at the friction that _wasn’t enough_

“Amatus, I know how you love--ahh, to s-stretch me,” Dorian moaned, clinging tight to Max’s overgrown hair, all messy and wild and an unbelievable turn on, “but I have a spell--” 

“I can’t wait, _please_ ,” Maxwell sounded so broken with need, his chest heaving with breath, his scars white in the faint light that came in from the windows as the sun descended behind the cliffs. Dorian freed one of his hands from Max’s hair, carefully disentangling one of his rings from the strands with a flushed apology. Maxwell only chuckled and grabbed Dorian’s hand, pulling the ring off with his teeth, tongue leaving the way wet for the piece of jewelry. Dorian nearly came right there as Max sucked the ring around his scandalous tongue with a wink. 

“F-fuck, _Maxwell_ ,” he hissed as his fingers quickly summoned the spell that manipulated his body. Max’s eyes grew even more dilated at the sound of his name, the vivid green color, so telling of Trevelyan blood, barely visible as black filled his irises. The spell slickened his entrance, relaxed his muscles, eased them apart, in a matter of seconds. It wasn’t _pleasant_ but it wasn’t painful and it got the job done, which was the point. Max kissed him roughly, teeth pulling at teeth, tongue soothing the sore flesh with the metal of his ring rubbing against it, as he gripped Dorian’s base with his right hand, and guided himself in with his left, using only his core muscles to remain above Dorian. The display of strength made Dorian’s cock twitch in Max’s hand with a heady groan. 

Max still stretched him, but it felt _so_ good. Dorian’s hands immediately found Max’s hair again, gripping and tugging. Max slowly pushed in, and it felt like Dorian was going insane. He wanted to beg, beg to be fucked, to be filled, to be fucking _claimed_ but he couldn’t make more than a moan as Max pushed to his hilt, his hand finding space on the bed next to Dorian’s head. There was a moment of stillness as they panted against each other’s mouth. A moment of reprieve, holding each other, knowing each other were actually physically there before Max collided their lips into a mind numbing, needing, possessive kiss. It was like a primer for gaatlok was detonated. The was pace was vicious and Dorian moaned as the sound of skin slapping skin filled the hovel. 

The heat of the desert pressed in around them, and Dorian was sure he could come just from Maxwell’s cock fucking him into the uncomfortable, shitty bed if it weren’t for his damned hand around his base. Dorian let out a scream of pleasure, his head falling back, just as he figured he was going to go insane from the build up, when Maxwell hit that _spot_ within him that made him see stars. It rendered him sightless as his eyes rolled up into his head, the hand around his cock gone as it twitched its finish against his stomach. 

“Dorian, Dorian,” He gasped above, and for one blessed, blasphemous moment Dorian thought it was the Maker before he opened his eyes to a sight even better. A sweaty, disheveled, _wrecked_ Maxwell, cheek flushed from exertion, his biceps clenched as his hands gripped Dorian’s hips, staring down at him like he was the most precious thing in the entire world. “I love you,” he gasped, thrusting deep into Dorian as he spoke, eyes never wavering. Dorian groaned, arching into the thrusts. Another, harder, another, then, “I love you so much,” Maxwell whispered, eyes closing as he pressed his forehead to Dorian’s chest. Dorian moaned softly, into Max’s hair, as he felt Max’s prick twitch within him, his hips stuttering as they stilled. 

The heat was oppressive, but neither moved for a moment as they caught their breath. Slowly Dorian unwound his fingers from his lover’s hair, kissing them so softly. “I love you, Amatus. I love you.” He whispered. So scared, even now, but Max only kissed his chest, then his collarbone, the purple spot on his neck, his scruffy jaw, before their lips connected. Slow, languid, lazy. Post-fucked-good kiss, and Dorian preened under the attention as Maxwell pulled out slowly. They both grimaced at the wet sound before chuckling. He got up, wetting a piece of cloth in a basin before returning, carefully cleaning both of them up. Dorian noticed his ring around the middle finger of Max’s real head with a note of pride. 

“Rest, my love...I’ll tend to Carantok, and then I’ll be back.” He whispered sweetly before kissing Dorian. While Dorian found the bed entirely too uncomfortable, he wiggled until he was comfortable enough. About ten minutes later, Maxwell returned, tugging off the boots and leggings he had dragged on, letting them rejoin the pile. He settled onto the rather small bed, and pulled Dorian so he was resting partially on the rogue. Dorian wanted to talk, to catch up, and get Maxwell readied for the trip back to civilization, but he was exhausted, both from the trip and the amazing reunion sex. The steady rhythm of Max’s heart and rise and fall of his chest acted as the perfect lullaby he had been missing for too long, and Dorian was fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian woke with a start, half-wondering where he was and if it was all a dream. There were no birds tweeting in the morning, no sounds of an estate rousing from sleep as servants and masters alike rose to their duties. He rolled over, eyes bleary, to find a board of breakfast foods waiting for him by the bed. The hovel, now that he could actually see it, was tidy and rustic. The floor was wooden, and swept. The roof was also made of wooden boards, and the sunlight filtered through the gaps between them. The windows had no glass, and a soft breeze blew in carrying the scent of water and something sweet that too ripe. It was small, and uncivilized, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else. But Maxwell was here, and he was determined to take him with.

He sat up, taking in the plate of food on the stand next to the bed. A couple of fried eggs, toasted bread, a cup of red jam, and a glass of water and some red-pink liquid, slices of cooked meat that resembled bacon, but didn’t smell like it, and a small desert flower in a vase. Dorian smiled at the gesture, heart swelling. He had missed Maxwell so fucking much, and he only realized how much when Maxwell was here again. 

After breakfast, he found some clothes left out, his armor mysteriously gone. But the clothes were comfortable, if worn and not at all fashionable. Dorian had to remind himself how much Max was cut off from the world. He didn't know anything, the latest trends, the latest political scandals, or the newest books and plays. Dorian dressed and made sure he looked acceptable (difficult without a mirror, but he had done so on countless missions with Max before), musing over all that had transpired since Maxwell disappeared into the west. Where could he start? Perhaps it would just be easier to throw Max right into the thick of it again. 

He left the hovel to find the object of all his love and desire dumping water into a trough for their steeds. The stallion guzzled greedily, while the skeletal one simply sipped before ducking back into the shade of the stables. Dorian looked around, slightly impressed with how much Maxwell had done in the years he had been gone. A home, a garden, a forge, and stables. It was a working and functioning homestead. Not that Dorian would _willingly_ live here, but he could see it could work if he _had_ to. 

“Good morning, Amatus,” he greeted as Max stacked the wooden buckets against the house. The redhead looked up with a gentle smile, approaching and giving him a sweet kiss as he slid his hands onto Dorian’s hips. _Both hands,_ Dorian thought, giddily. “Mmm, I find that I rather like this hardworking commoner look you’ve got going on,” he teased, hands running over bare biceps. Maxwell chuckled against his lips, kissing him again. 

“Enjoy breakfast?” He asked sweetly, pushing a lock of Dorian’s back behind his ear. 

“Exceedingly...What was the jam?” 

“A berry, grows by the water here. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour of Chateau de Trevelyan,” he said dramatically. Dorian giggled. It had been forever since he had seen Max, and yet they just seemed to fall into the same grooves they had carved out so many years ago. They were ready to pick things up where they were left, and it delighted Dorian. He gestured for Max to lead the way, and the man intertwined their fingers. Dorian felt the cool bite of the metal between his fingers, but it didn’t bother him. It made him happy. 

He was shown a larger garden, more a miniature farm, that Max had created, fenced off and irrigated. A herd of tuskets were corralled in a pen that was half land and half water, feasting on some sort of leftovers. There were five of them, and Max confessed he was ready to butcher one of them for it’s food. He just needed to find more salt deposits for the meat. Dorian shuddered, but didn’t press as they wandered deeper into the oasis. 

As they walked, they walked in silence. The roaring water of the falls of the oasis would’ve made conversation difficult anyways, but Dorian was happy just to be holding Maxwell again, to be standing next to him. They wandered down a path, between the two steep cliffs. A fennec screeched nearby and darted into a burrow. They turned a bend and Dorian couldn’t help but stare in awe at the sight. He had seen it before, true, but it was easy to forget such beauty. The lagoon stretched from cliffside to cliffside, their own personal lake, with three waterfalls cascading out of the cliffs to disappear into an underwater river deep beneath the desert. 

There were double wooden doors in the side of the cliff, with clay-like bricks lining them. Maxwell led him in, revealing a cool, shaded place, with boxes made of wood filled with jars of clay. “The storeroom,” he gestured with a smirk before leading Dorian over to a crate. Behind it was a slab of clay with a rope handle. With ease, Max lifted it revealing a rope a stone ladder. “I was running out of wood,” he explained with a grin. “Shall I, or you?” 

“Oh no, be my guest,” Dorian said with a shake of his head. Max shrugged and descended into the darkness. Dorian waited for a moment before a glow of a torch illuminated the bottom and a waiting Maxwell. With a huff, Dorian started down, vaguely wondering why he had let the Exalted Council take the Inquisition from Skyhold. It was removed from civilization, sure, but at least it had been a castle not a hovel in a cliffside with a dirty store room and basement. 

The caves were even cooler than the storeroom, and Maxwell led him down the winding cavern tunnel until they reached yet another door. Dorian was starting to get annoyed. How much did Maxwell build out here? Had he truly expected to spend the rest of his life in the middle of a wasteland? The door led to a darkened room. Maxwell entered, using the torch he had carried to light the way. He lit another and put the original in a sconce. The flames grew to reveal a workshop of sorts. There was a desk with numerous drawings of plans on paper that looked, well, five years old. Charcoal stained the wooden surface. Against another wall was a workbench, with several homemade tools and what looked like a recreation of Bianca on the workbench surface. There was even a makeshift kiln in an extra cave room, with a chimney leading up to the surface. 

“Well, it’s certainly extensive,” Dorian said dryly, shaking his head. “Though, this,” he said as he ran his fingers over the second Bianca’s handle, “is impressive.” 

“I’ve designed and made more than enough parts for the original, I figured I’d use my sudden bout of free time to figure out the rest of her. Should I name it Dorian?” He teased and Dorian gave him a withering stare. 

“These are rather interesting,” he said, looking over the designs. Wings? There would be a sight, flight obtained by ingenuity instead of magic. Sketches of his arm, or the pieces of it anyways, and what looked like weaponized add-ons. Maxwell was always clever. “Did you really expect to make all of this?” He asked disbelievingly, as he picked up a design for a series of pipes and pulley systems over a likeness of the lagoon. 

“Eventually. I only have a few hours a day to play, as it were, so-” 

“Wait, what?” 

“My chores keep me pretty busy,” Max explained as he settled into the chair at his desk, feet up on the surface, hands behind his head. “Between making sure the animals are fed, and I’m fed, and the entire place doesn’t wither around me. Not to mention for the first year or so I had to do it one-handed.” The metal fingers wiggled at him and Dorian frowned. 

“Well that’s not anyone’s fault but your own,” Dorian said haughtily, “No one _told_ you to come out here to Maker’s taint, but here you are.” 

Dorian spared another glance at the designs before looking at Max. He startled at the expression. Anger. Maxwell was angry? At him for speaking the truth. Well, Dorian was used to dealing with anger such as that by now. The other Magisters enjoyed being so trying. But before he could continue, Maxwell was standing, and for a terrible moment Dorian thought he was in danger. Instead, the redhead turned toward another ladder. “I have work to do. Feel free to amuse yourself until I’m done.” And with that he was gone through another trap door. Dorian immediately followed to find himself in the hovel Max had made a home, with the man vanishing through the door. 

Furious, he gave chase. “What, did someone tell you to drag yourself out here? The Exalted Council? The Maker? Solas?” 

“Not in so many words. Dorian, I have work to do so we both don’t die out here,” Max snapped, heading towards where the tuskets snorted as they ate the slop provided. 

“Not in so many words?” Dorian scoffed, that was the weakest explanation he had ever heard, and he had heard plenty of bullshit explanations from Maxwell. (His favorite was “Morrigan is a bitch, so why should she get the Well?”) “Care to explain that?” 

“You were there. “We don’t need you anymore, Inquisitor. You’ve done your job.” So, I left,” Max shrugged, stopping by the forge to grab what looked like a butcher’s knife. Dorian’s stomach flipped, unwilling to see or hear an animal being slaughtered. Sure, he had killed so many things in time, but usually because his own life was on the line. Those poor tuskets… 

“Yes, I know. It was wrong of them to do that, but now you have a chance to prove them wrong.” 

“I did prove them wrong, when I stopped the Qunari invasion. My thanks was they took _my_ Inquisition. In short, _fuck them_ ,” he said bitterly, sharpening the tool that he was going to use to kill. For survival, Dorian reminded himself before shaking his head. 

“This is ridiculous, Amatus,” Max paused in his work before he continued, his actions quicker, angrier. “It _is_ , Amatus. It’s utterly ridiculous that you dragged yourself out to a wasteland to suffer in bitterness. You could be changing the world.” 

“I should’ve destroyed the Chantry. I thought putting Leliana on the throne would do that, but no. What was Hawke’s friend? You read Varric’s book, right? He had the idea. Should’ve just gone to Val Royeaux. That would’ve bred change. But instead Thedas continues to fucking rot. You see what they’ve done? They betrayed the Grey Wardens, killing the Hero of Fereldan. Look at what I did, to try and appease fucking Thedas, I left Hawke in the _fucking_ Fade. I didn’t expect a thank you, I didn’t want one, but I didn’t expect to be betrayed by _everyone_. Ameridan was right, the world takes everything from you, and then leaves you to history and wonders why their heroes left. 

“So why are you here, Dorian?” Maxwell snapped, turning towards him. Dorian instinctively stepped back, suddenly too aware of how dangerous a man Maxwell truly was. Even without his bow and arrow, he was deadly. Had he be only one-handed, Dorian figured he’d have a chance, but no, the man had made sure that weakness was accounted for. It was what made him such a great Inquisitor. He had no time for weakness. He made his weaknesses his strengths, and that’s what destroyed the Inquisition during the Exalted Council meetings. 

“Solas is finally making his moves. Leliana needs you, we all do--” 

“Yeah, _now_. Well, tell King Alistair and his Uncle Teagan that if Fereldan didn’t want a foreign power on their doorstep, they should’ve been prepared to deal with the threats it dealt with. And tell the Empress she still owes me before I do her another favor,” Max snarled, looking half-mad with his wild, coarse hair and stubble, his arm glittering metal in the desert sunlight, gripping a tool meant to slaughter. They stared at each other for a moment, Dorian’s heart hammering in his chest before Max turned away. 

“Coward.” 

Max stopped, his grip around the butchering tool loosening before he threw the blade to the ground. Dorian straightened his back, glaring at the back of his head, ready for a fight. Magic thrummed in his fingertips, waiting for the man to lunge, so fast and deadly...But he just stood there, still as a statue. Dorian stepped forward carefully. His lifted his hand, brushing over his shoulder before he felt Max shaking. Startled, he stepped around. Max turned away, lifting his hand, his fake hand, to his mouth, eyes closing as he hid his face from Dorian. Tears, pale and clear and small, rolled down his cheeks, descending over the metal of his hand. 

“Oh, Amat-” 

“Use my name.” Max snapped, still vicious and sharp, even in pain. Dorian swallowed thickly, nodding, carefully wiping the tears away. 

“Maxwell,” he murmured, lips against his cheekbone, catching the new tears. Salt, but it wasn’t as sweet as the day before with their tears on their lips. It tasted bitter, too sad and broken. “Please...We all need you. Not just Thedas, but _us_. Your advisors, your inner circle. We need you. _I_ need you.” 

“If that were true, why did you wait until now to find me?” He whispered, behind his hand. “You didn’t stay, you didn’t let me come with you, if you needed me so badly, why did you settle for a crystal. If you needed me, why did you watch them take everything from me, and then take yourself from me as well?” He asked, voice breaking. “I needed you, too, and you left anyways.” 

Dorian felt his own tears build up, and he pressed his eyes closed, desperate to keep them in. He had a...what? A reputation? Here, of all places? He swallowed, and tried to take a shaking breath. “I told you-” 

“Tevinter needed you, but not me. No one needed me, until now. And I have nothing else left to give. I’ve given everything to Thedas, Dorian. My freedom, my history, my family ties, my friends...even my Inquisition, even you. _Even my name._ And now you’re asking me to give up more. I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore, Dorian, I can’t,” he gasped, breaking, and Dorian barely caught him as he let out his sobs. His head fell to Dorian’s shoulder, and they both slipped to their knees to the hot sand. Dorian felt his own emotions constrict and twist around each other, his own tears spilling hot over his cheeks. 

He couldn’t comprehend, but he _felt_ it. How he betrayed his beloved, the one person he loved more than anything, how he had just left with barely a thought to how Maxwell would feel. He was so worried about the future, he didn’t consider Max’s. His Amatus… “Please, please stay...Dorian, please,” Max sobbed, more tears than coherence. Dorian only held him, clung to him, anchored him with his arms and his kisses. He couldn’t tell Max that he’d be leaving again. He couldn’t, so he just kissed the tears away and replaced them with his own as they held each other.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max closed his eyes, folding his hands against his mouth like a prayer. He felt his eyes well up with tears. _Nothing. There was nothing here._ The words were like an echo. Dorian was talking, but Max couldn’t hear him. Didn’t want to, really.

Dorian let the cool water wash over him. After their fight, he and Maxwell had sat together in the dirty hovel and talked softly. Not about the world, or the past or future, or what Thedas needed, but just about them. It had been freeing and jarring, and Dorian had realized they were both incredibly broken men. Max had confessed that he loved being called Amatus before, but now it was just a reminder how no one used his name.

That had seemed silly to Dorian, at first, but it was true. Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine only ever called him Inquisitor. Bull called him Boss, Thom addressed him as Ser. Even Solas hadn’t spoken his name, preferring “friend” or Inquisitor. Maxwell. It felt strange on Dorian’s lips, like a secret he wasn’t allowed to tell. In part, that was probably why he had only used Amatus but for their most intimate moments. Nobles could condone a sexual act between people, but to have someone as lowly as the evil Magister call someone as great and powerful as the grand Inquisitor by their name? It wasn’t done. 

Of course, back then he hadn’t been a Magister. And Maxwell had shown him his human side. The side of the Inquisitor that wasn’t the Inquisitor at all. He had shown Dorian the man he was, before the conclave. Maxwell Trevelyan, dashingly handsome rogue, a faux pariah in the eyes of Ostwick, beloved by his people and his family while roaming the wilds and killing fantastic beasts. _Honestly, it was mostly wolves, but people were impressed anyways,_ Max had laughed. 

Now, look at him. He had killed all of the High Dragons in Orlais and Fereldan, slew Nightmare demons, a false God, a Guardian of a Titan, and even an Avaar god. And no one knew his name. Dorian sighed, wiping the tears from his face. How much crying had he done today? Far, far too much, in his opinion. 

Rough hands gently moved his hair over his shoulder, and scarred lips kissed the exposed flesh. It warmed his heart having Max so close to him after years of being so far apart. Just the simple touches, a brush of fingertips, lips on his cheek, a hug from behind, he hadn’t realized how much he missed them until they were happening again. Maxwell’s strong arm, his real one, wrapped around Dorian’s middle and his lips found his jawline. “Tevinter bathhouses better than this?” He asked, teasingly. Dorian scoffed dramatically. 

“In every sense. They have _walls_ , for one. A music! Food and wine, and plenty of dashing men to stare at. Alas, however, they do not have you. So I suppose, no, they are not,” Dorian lamented, turning in his arm to kiss him sweetly. His hands ran down both biceps, before his right slipped. Dorian went bright red and Max chuckled. 

“It’s okay. Really. It sucked, for a while,” he sighed, and they both looked at the stump where his arm once was. “But I’ve gotten over it. Besides, I have it even better. I have an arm I can take off and literally hit people with. Imagine if I could do that in political meetings.” Dorian laughed, covering Max’s face as he cackled. The idea was ridiculous, but he couldn’t get the image of Maxwell beating some more Orlesian to death with an arm while Josephine fretted in the background. 

“You’re a madman.” He chastised as Max kissed his palm. 

“You love it. Are you almost done?” 

“You just got here yourself. Which reminds me, do you even bother washing your hair?” 

“With what?” 

Dorian stared at him, but Max seemed completely serious. _Kaffas, how can he consent to living in this wasteland?_ Dorian thought while he waded to the bank. He heard Max hum something of approval as he bent over to rummage through his hygienic bags, looking for soap and bathing clothes. He wiggled his hips a bit, smirking when he heard the sharp intake of breath. With the needed items gathered, he returned to Max. 

“You know, I don’t mind you having hair.” Max murmured, eyes blazed with lust. Dorian flushed at the idea. He usually used spells to remove any of the unwanted hair, but while in the desert he saved every drop of mana he had for survival. Here, he considered it but hadn’t decided either way on it. It wasn’t civilization, who cared if he looked like a barbarian. Apparently, however, Max did care, though Dorian had never thought his vote would go in _favor_ of the hair. 

“Perish the thought, Maxwell,” he said stiffly, rolling his eyes. “As if I would willingly go untamed. I thought you enjoyed it the other way,” he sniffed, pretending to be wounded. He made it just the right amount of dramatic and self-deprecation, where it was clearly a joke and that he wasn’t offended, but the question of “didn’t you like it?” was still seriously asked. 

“I enjoy you any way,” Max said seriously as Dorian readied the soap between his fingers before starting to work through the coarse, sand scrubbed red hair. Dorian flushed again, a small smile growing across his face. _Shush, you fool. You’re making me love you._ he thought with a dreamy sigh. Max smiled a bit, callused fingers brushing away some suds from Dorian’s wrist. “You’re perfect, no matter what.” 

“Oh, the things you say,” Dorian sighed wistfully with a contented smile as he carefully worked apart every knot. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Clearly Max _tried_ to keep it orderly and neat, though Dorian had no idea what he used for a comb. But it was still unrefined. His wild long hair, coupled with his rough stubble-turning-beard, tan lines and scarred visage, well his entire appearance was playing on every beautiful-Altus-conquered-by-unseemly-Barbarian fantasy Dorian had ever had. 

Inch by inch Max relaxed into Dorian’s working fingers, letting the Magister work out every knot and straighten every strand. His hand fell forward, and Dorian had to stand on a rock to get to all of his roots. His fingertips massaged gently into the scalp. Nails nipped and scrapped, before the pads of his fingers smoothed it over. Maxwell’s tension dropped away completely well before Dorian was done. Amused, he rinsed the suds from his hair, watching as the length grew a few inches since it was freed from being bunched up by knots. 

“That felt...amazing,” Max breathed softly and Dorian chuckled. 

“I’m not done, Amatus,” he murmured, and tensed up. After a moment, Maxwell touched his hip, lips finding his chest in a chaste kiss. 

“I don’t mind it. I like it. But also my name,” he explained, and Dorian nodded. He could do that. Carefully, without moving too far, he grabbed the oil that softened hair. He applied a few dots to Max’s roots before he carefully massaged the oil through the hair. It was one of the most luxurious items Dorian had with him. Only a few dots did the trick, and Maker did it work. It smelled like jasmine, and Dorian briefly imagined his Maxwell with the small white flowers in his hair. The image was so enchanting that it nearly broke as Dorian considered their surroundings. He had no idea how he was going to get Maxwell back to civilization, but he wasn’t going to leave without every option exhausted. 

Once the oil was spread through his hair, Dorian carefully rinsed each individual lock. If you managed to leave some of the oil, you’d look like you hadn’t bathed in weeks. It was the only downside. Luckily Dorian usually had servants to make sure that didn’t happen. And Maxwell had Dorian. His heart clenched, and he wondered if he could leave without Maxwell. It had been hard enough five years ago, but it was different now. Dorian had assumed they had their own destinies to attend to then. Now...he didn’t even know. 

WIth practiced fingers, he started to comb through the hair, starting from the tips and working his way up to the roots. The color was so vivid when dry, but when it was wet, it almost looked like a dark purple. The length was all over the place. Uneven, and the ends! He had never seen such frayed ends. “I should cut your hair,” he said thoughtfully as he combed. Maxwell chuckled beneath him. 

“Are you sure you’re a Magister back in Tevinter?” 

“I excel at a great many things, Max. Perfection is not limited to such dashing looks.” Dorian teased and Max hummed in thought before lifting his shoulder. Dorian watched his arm, utterly transfixed by how it moved. Dorian wasn’t sure if it moved the way it was supposed to, or if it acted differently without the rest of its self. Catching himself staring, he returned to combing, thanking the Maker that Max’s head was ducked as he worked. 

“You can cut it if you’d like. I have scissors.” 

“How the hell do you have scissors?” 

Max’s head moved beneath his hands as he chuckled. “I brought them. I figured I would need to cut my hair, but I was shit at it, so.” Well that explained the uneven lengths. Dorian hummed as he studied the dark red locks as they started to dry in the hot evening air. He finished combing and parted the hair so he could see his beloved. A thumb traced the rather gnarled scar that descended from his left eye before he kissed him sweetly. 

“I’ll cut your hair. Once I’m done.” 

“Maker’s breath, what else can you do?” 

Dorian put on a well and truly offended look and Maxwell sighed and consented. Dorian, giddy he was allowed, gathered up the bathing cloth and soap. Lathering it, and pausing to smell it, he sighed. It was _Tevinter_. It was his family’s gardens, it was Minrathous during parades. It was burnt sugar and new robes and long nights in Alexius’ study. It was sweet, with an edge of something stronger, like bourbon. And while it was Dorian’s scent, he thought it would suit Maxwell quite well. 

Max didn’t protest as Dorian pulled him to shallower water, and started to work over his skin. The man probably did at least scrub dirt off each day, washing away the worst of the stink. Dorian was thankful for it. Instead of unwashed human, Maxwell had the scent of the desert. He was the cool water near his neck and mouth, and the sour scent of the dragonthorn plants around his hands. He had the scent of rough dirt, not rich like a garden, but untamable, like a mine ladened with metal. Slowly, Dorian eroded the scents that lingered in his skin, wiping away dirt and grime from the day’s work. He cleaned under his fingernails, behind his ears, and into his navel. Max didn’t protest, but watched, an amused twinkle and half smile across his marked face. 

Once the man was _clean_ , Dorian added more soap. His touches were more precise, massaging away tension in those tanned shoulders. His fingertips guided bubbles from freckle to freckle, his own beautiful starry sky. His personal astrarium. Max’s eyes closed as Dorian worked, hands lingering over muscles, touching them appreciatively. Abs quivered and tightened under his touch before relaxed as he massaged the soap into his skin. Thighs shook as Dorian pointedly ignored the half-hard member between them. He led Max to sit on the smooth stone where the soap and bottles sat. He worked over his toes, cleaning and working out the knots of his long days. Dorian moved up, cloth forgotten on the stone, as his suds covered hands worked over his arms, fingers pressing into his armpits, down his pecs, over his navel. 

Max was openly moaning now, head fallen back. His half-dried hair cascaded around his shoulders. His gnarled hand gripped the stone, nails digging in, getting dirty again. And Dorian thought, if the Maker had a visage, he must have bestowed it upon Maxwell. He must’ve been chosen from birth. With careful revenance, Dorian’s hands found the hardened member between his lover’s legs. The strokes were steady and infinite, hand over hand, as he watched Max crumble beneath the weight of the pleasure. His elbow gave out, but any worry Dorian might’ve had was shattered with Maxwell’s breathy chuckle as he laid back, knocking the closed bottles over. The rolled and thumped to the sand. 

“The things you do,” Max whispered, voice breathy and nearly lost to the sounds of the waterfalls cascading around them. Dorian chuckled, and lowered his hands to his lover’s sac. He rolled them, gently washing Max’s most intimate place, before his fingers descended lower. Max jerked suddenly before relaxing with a groan. Dorian was confident that Max wasn’t a barbarian, and kept himself clean. And he was right, but was ever determined to replace the scent of this _place_ with the scent of himself on every inch of his beloved. Hands rinsed of the suds, he cupped some water and spilled it over his lover's thighs, and rinses away the suds from Max’s entrance. Gentle fingers raised water to his balls, massaging them to Max’s moans, as the suds fell away. His prick was hard, standing erect from a thatch of bright red, curly hair. It made Dorian’s mouth water as he cleaned the soap away. 

Without hesitating, Dorian wrapped his pretty lips around Max’s head. His tongue laved over it greedily as he watched Max’s reaction. His chest heaved as he groaned, his skin becoming flushed. From his vantage point, Dorian saw how Max’s hair spread around his head like a bloody halo, the contrast to his skin making him like some holy figure fallen from grace. Slowly he moved his tongue around his head, drawing out broken moans. With practiced ease, he outlined his head, slowly sinking lower onto his cock. 

Max’s hand found his hair, and he chuckled low as it gripped hard. Dorian took it as a good sign and continued. He moved up and down, tongue generously exploring every ridge of vein and flesh as Maxwell continued to break down into moans and whispered prayers of his name. With carefully timed motions, Dorian lowered his head further onto Max’s cock, lips parting and jaw aching as he relaxed his muscles. He teased Max with a taste of his throat before he pulled off, returning to his head to worship. 

“Fuck, Dorian, the things you do to me,” Max grumbled, eyes closed. His neck was red with pleasure, his freckles standing out sharply against the color. His muscles clenched and relaxed. With a simple nudge of his shoulders, Dorian got him to let his legs fall apart and obscenely expose himself. Small and gentle kitten licks to his sac caused a new string of pleasured swears to fall from Max’s lips. 

Where Dorian was smooth, Max was rough. Dorian’s lips were pretty, usually painted with a glossy oil. Max’s lips were rough, and scarred. He and Cullen shared a similar scar, though Cullen had the fortune that his healed well. Max’s happened in the middle of a bog during a thunderstorm that rattled the wooden planks of the hovel they had taken shelter in. Blackwall and Sera were useless and Dorian had felt guilty he hadn’t known any healing magic. Max assured everyone a regeneration potion would work fine. The scar, gnarled, always making Maxwell look like he was scowling while he wore his resting face, felt _glorious_ on Dorian’s cock. 

With this in mind, Dorian used Max’s cock to part his lips, letting the hardened flesh gently ease passed them. He flicked his tongue out between his teeth to tease, causing Max to buck forward instinctively. Dorian had half a mind to open his mouth a bit more, but just enough. His teeth ran over Max’s sensitive flesh, and the man’s back bowed as he moaned. Encouraged, Dorian slowly fed his prick into his mouth, letting his teeth scrape lightly over the member and allowed his tongue to soothe the irritation away. What Max was leaking before doubled, and Dorian nearly gagged as he managed to push all the way. His throat muscles fluttered around the member, greedy for more. Dorian moved back momentarily, breathing in deeply, before he filled his throat again. 

“Fuck, fuck, Dorian, you look _so_ good around my dick,” Max groaned, and Dorian flicked his eyes up to see Max staring down at him. His hand was still intertwined in Dorian’s hair, and he massaged the scalp gently. With a smirk, Dorian cupped his balls, earning a soft gasp. A moment passed as Dorian swallowed around his cock, and Max’s eyes rolled up and closed, his head falling backward. A moment, and a wicked smirk, and Dorian very gingerly pressed his teeth into the flesh. “Dorian! Fu--uuuck--” 

His body seized up, and Dorian pulled back enough before he came. He swallowed what he could quickly, holding what he couldn’t. As Max finished, Dorian swallowed around him before pulling off. Gently, he licked away the load lingering on Max, greedy. So greedy. He used the water to wash away anything else with a chuckle. Max was boneless, eyes flickering over the lilac sky. They couldn’t see the sunset from where they were, tucked into the oasis, but the purple shadows cast over them made Dorian feel at peace. 

“I love you.” Dorian whispered, pressing a kiss to his hip. His fingertips trailed over a rather tame scar that trailed up his side. It was only about five inches long. His thumb traced a burn scar just under his heart. His lips found one on his thigh, small, from an arrow Dorian assumed. So many scars. “I love you so much, Max,” he whispered again. Slowly they found their strength to sit up. Dorian stood beneath Max’s legs, kissing his collarbone and neck, his jaw and lips, as Max held him close. “We should shave.” 

“Maker’s breath, bathing should not take this long,” Max groaned, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Dorian chuckled. “Besides, you’ve spoiled me enough, tonight.” 

“Perish the thought. I have five years to catch up on,” he said simply as he grabbed the satchel that held his shaving tools. He unscrewed the jar of the cream, carefully brushing it over Max’s cheeks and jaw. Max sighed, but stayed still, watching Dorian with an amused twinkle. Dorian carefully shaved him, enjoying it immensely. He always loved to shave another man, probably another deeply broken aspect of himself or another kinky fantasy. Of course, Max was an interesting face to shave. The scars gave an interesting challenge, and it was always so nice just to _touch_ him. Finally he finished with a smile, running fingers over (mostly) smooth skin. 

“Your turn,” Max said as he gathered up the cream. Dorian would’ve protested, saying there was a process, steps one had to take, but he had already washed his hair and body before Maxwell came over. 

“You do know how to shave me, right?” Dorian said sternly and Max chuckled. 

“Don’t worry, my love. I only love you for your moustache,” he teased, giving him a quick kiss. “I would never get rid of it.” Dorian rolled his eyes but consented to Max brushing the cream over his face with gentle, practiced hands. He can’t imagine Max would’ve shaved often out here, if only perhaps to find some respite in the heat of the days, but as Max started it was soothing. His movements were careful but assured, and it seemed like in no time that he was rinsing the cream away. With careful, short movements, he groomed the edges of his moustache before leaning back with a smirk. He turned Dorian’s head each way, before he nodded. “Maker, you’re fucking gorgeous.” 

“Yes. It’s a burden to be so perfect, but alas, I was born to shoulder such.” 

“Shut up,” Max laughed as they gathered up the bathing supplies. Dorian felt a bit weird, being so naked without walls or water to shield them, but Max walked back to the hovel unashamed with their clothes, so Dorian followed quickly. They dried naturally before the cooling air forced them into some pants and shirts. 

Dorian was lounging on the bed, thankful that Max had stuffed the thing with fennec fur, and even killed a vulture to make Dorian a vulture feather pillow. Dorian accepted the gag gift without question, and was now using it prop himself up. Max was cutting up the meat from the vulture, his metal hand back on his arm and glinting in the firelight. Apparently what they were supposed to have went rotten and Max had to give it to the dracolisk. It was soothing to watch Max in such a domestic act. So often when Dorian had dreamed of him, it was in the throes battle or the intensity of passion. This was a nice change. 

“The crossbow, why is it giving you such trouble?” 

“The automatic reloading,” Max answered immediately. “It keeps jamming, and I’m not sure how Bianca figured it out. I’ve adjusted the measurements, and attachments, and even the chamber, but it’s not quite working. I’m thinking she used a special alloy for the chamber that is smoother. I might try adjusting the design again, make it more streamline and see if that works.” Dorian nodded, considering. 

“How much supplies do you have?” Max paused, glancing over his shoulder at him but Dorian just looked on, curious and innocent. Max shrugged, returning to his work as he added the meat to the stew. 

“A few months of non perishables in ways of food. That’s including you and Carantok. I have metals and lyrium, though, and seeds for crops, and the water is infinite. So I’m good for years.” 

Dorian sighed, looking away. The idea of Max being here for years more was heartbreaking. And the fact that he included Dorian in his calculations make his chest tighten. “Ah,” he said, unable to find anything witty. Max just continued to prepare dinner. He slid the pot over the flames, and returned to salting the organs and leftover meat. 

“You won’t even consider it?” Dorian finally asked. Max grunted, annoyed and frustrated, as he slammed the knife into his wooden cutting board, and Dorian flinched but held his gaze on Max’s back. 

“Won’t you?” Max shot back. “You could stay with me--” 

“Me? Here? You must be joking,” Dorian said off-handedly. “Max, I’m fairly certain that you are the _only_ person in Thedas who would enjoy living out here. There’s nothing here! I don’t know how you’ve done it, honestly.” 

Max didn’t answer. He continued to work, packing away the meat and then washing off the knife and board. Dorian watched, waiting for another fight, the tension growing. But the man just continued to cook dinner, cleaning, avoiding the questions. Dorian cleared his throat pointedly. Maxwell ignored him as he took the basin, dumping out the dirty water over the various herbs in his smaller garden. Dorian sat up more in bed as Max returned to the hovel. “Max.” He said, as sternly as he could get with the other man. 

  


How could Max explain? He considered the options, what words he could say, as he watched the water rush over the garden, soaking into the soil. Finally, he returned back inside, nearly flinching at seeing Dorian’s intense glare. His name, though...Max nearly cried again. His name. Every time Dorian said it, it hurt, but in the best way. _He had a name._ But he ignored Dorian. He just didn’t know what to say. But he ran out of things to do and finally turned towards the bed. 

He approached slowly, unsure if he should, and sat down next to him. He stared at the floor, considering all of the options. He didn’t want to lie, never to Dorian, but he didn’t know what to say. Why did he come here, of all places? Because it understood. But Dorian wouldn’t understand that. No one would, no one would understand how a place could understand. Except maybe Solas. Max sighed, covering his face, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. He just wanted to sleep and never wake. How he wished he could enter uthenera and never come back. But he was human, and the veil was still up. For now. 

“I had nothing,” he finally said, unable to help the sudden pang of guilt. He didn’t want to make Dorian feel like shit for going to Tevinter, but it _had_ hurt. It had hurt more than anything, more than losing his best friend and having him be an ancient elven fucking god, more than losing his Inquisition. He lost his heart, his soulmate, and he had been utterly lost. “I had _nothing_. So I came here. I don’t know, to make something better. To make something that no one could take. And you could have that, too, here…” He tried again, tried to tempt Dorian into staying. True, it would be hard for the man, so used to luxury, to adapt, but Max couldn’t get the idea out of his head. The two of them, here together. Nothing could take them apart from each other. 

“I can’t stay here. Honestly, Amatus, do you really see me _here_? No matter what you’ve done with it, it’s still nowhere. It’s still..it’s not even living, it’s just surviving. There’s nothing here.” Max closed his eyes, folding his hands against his mouth like a prayer. He felt his eyes well up with tears. _Nothing. There was nothing here._ The words were like an echo. Dorian was talking, but Max couldn’t hear him. Didn’t want to, really. 

“I’m here.” He said, interrupting what was probably a very well-thought out speech about Thedas and Solas and being a hero. He summoned the strength to look at Dorian, and felt his entire soul collapse as he took in his expression. How could he hurt him like that? Dorian’s eyes were wide, his mouth open where his words were once, now silent. Tears welled up in his eyes, so beautiful, even now. And Max immediately looked away. He was weak. Dorian was right, he was a coward. 

“So you are,” Dorian whispered, his voice strangled and in pain. Max shook his head. He wanted to scream his apologies, he wanted to hold himself to Dorian, to never let go, to never hurt again. But he knew the moment Dorian called him a coward. That he was going to go, and Max was going to be utterly weak to him, and he was going to follow. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, to be safe and unaffected by the world. Let another hero rise up and fight Fen’Harel. But no, Dorian had come back, and suddenly he had something again. 

“I love you,” Max whispered, looking back at Dorian. “So fucking much...Maker, I’d do anything for you.” Dorian nodded, eyes flickering back to him. And Max ducked his head, hiding his face against Dorian’s neck. Any unrest he felt in his heart was quieted as Dorian wrapped his arms around him, protecting him. “Anything.” Maxwell promised, tears, unbidden and unwanted, leaking, staining Dorian’s beauty. How could such a man even stand to look at something like Max? A coward, who ran and hid when he was hurt, like a dog under a porch, so ugly and scarred. 

“I love you, Maxwell, amatus. My beloved,” he heard against his ear, in the sweet voice that only Dorian had, and Max felt it again. Whatever Dorian had given back at the Storm Coast, what fragment of his soul that Max gave to him to protect, was back in Dorian’s possession and he was helpless to deny the man anything. Not that he’d even try. 

“I’ll go back. For you,” he whispered and he felt Dorian relax against him. He felt long, graceful fingers run through his hair, and he felt his own soul wrap around those sinful fingers. They didn’t say anything. And Max felt his freedom slip away. Dorian had told him once he didn’t know what being a slave was like, and Max had agreed then. He didn’t. But he could imagine it was like this. Having one person be your entire world, willing or not. With a soft noise of pain, he hid his face into Dorian’s neck, letting more tears stain the copper skin. 

_Willing. I am utterly willing._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, but I needed to write it because my heart. Do not listen to Let it Go by James Bay while reading this. Or do it if you're a masochist.

Maxwell stared out over the city. Val Royeaux hadn’t changed in the ten years he had been gone. As the moon rose, it passed through the stained glass dome of the Chantry, splitting the light in a million different ways. It reminded him of the Breach, and his arm ached. He felt the random spasm in his left hand. He clenched his right, unable to do a thing until the phantom pain passed. _“What if you leave again?”_ he had asked.

_“I will never leave you again, Amatus.”_

He missed the desert, missed it’s candor. It never lied, never pretended to be something it wasn’t. It knew it wanted to kill you, and it never said it wasn’t going to. Maxwell knew the stakes there. Once upon a time, he knew the Game, the politics of the world. He had a mask, just as real as an Orlesian, but it had long since broken. He swallowed every lie told to him, now. 

_“I missed you,”_ Cassandra smiled. _“You inspired me,”_ murmured Leliana. _“You are a great man,”_ said Cullen. All proud, like roosters, preening themselves for their cleverness. _“We needed you,”_ Josephine beamed. He had believed them all. 

Max covered his eyes, swallowing his emotion. It felt like a rock in his throat, and wouldn’t budge. People associated Tevinter with snakes, but there were plenty of vipers in Val Royeaux. They had a plan, he was told. If they managed to find him, they were going to let him run Leliana’s network in Tevinter. He would be brought on, officially, as Dorian’s concubine, for lack of a better word. And his sister, Evelyn Trevelyan, would serve as his bride-to-be. Run of the mill nobility love triangle. 

Maxwell had been shocked to find his sister working alongside Enchanter Vivienne. 

_“Brother! Why did you go? I’ve barely stopped weeping,”_ she wailed as she hugged him. He didn’t notice her perfect makeup, too happy to see her. 

Maxwell turned from the chantry, closing the double doors behind him with a snap. In the dim moonlight that managed to slip through the curtains, he saw his bed. Cold. Empty. He didn’t understand how it spiraled out of control, how he could be so fucking blind and stupid. 

  


“It’s no use, Fen’Hariel knows you’ve returned, despite your quiet arrival. We needed the element of surprise to put you in a position of power in Tevinter. Now, he will be moving his network northward before you can grab the spots yourself.” 

“What does that mean?” Maxwell demanded, glancing around the table, from one former advisor to the next. The room was quiet. “We can still try and move. It’ll be more work, but I’ve never shied away from-” 

“You cannot go to Tevinter, Maxwell,” Leliana said, proudly, looking down her nose at him from her throne. Maxwell could only stare back. “We’ll figure out a different way. We cannot risk losing you to assassins. You’re the only one that can match the Dread Wolf in combat.” 

“I can defend myself against assassins!” Maxwell shouted, eyes narrowing at the Most Holy. He was starting to see red. He had to go to Tevinter, Dorian couldn’t stay here. He needed to return to the Magisterium. Max wasn’t about to force him to give up his progress. “This isn’t a dead end. It’s a fucking puzzle, we can figure this out!” 

“Exactly, Lord Trevelyan,” Divine Victoria said as she stood. Her Guard, former Inquisition soldiers, he noted, straightened to attention. “We will rearrange the pieces. You are a piece. Consider it a game of chess. We can afford to send a bishop,” she gestured to Dorian, staying silent beside the former Inquisitor, “but not the Queen. Not when the other is set up to take it.” 

“I must go to Tevinter,” Maxwell snapped. Leliana sighed softly, and glanced to Josephine with a silent plea for help. Maxwell straightened with a chill down his back as he realized what had just occurred. He knew his former council well. He knew Leliana’s smallest tells, call him paranoid about a woman who survived the Blight with barely a scratch to show for it. Her patience was infinite, unless she dealt with someone she knew. Whenever Cullen had some ridiculous notion about sending in a battalion and she had her own plan laid, she’d glance to her secret weapon. The snake with a silver tongue: Josephine. Maxwell watched as the Divine’s eyes narrowed a fraction as she realized too late. 

“You planned this!?” he snarled, glancing to everyone of them. “What was it? This grand plan? To tie me up in a web in Val Royeaux? To delay Dorian?” He glared at them all. Josephine lifted her portable secretary, eyes wide as she peeked over the top. It reminded him of a child getting scolded, and he would laugh if he weren’t so furious. 

She stammered for words, unable to deny the proof in Leliana’s tell, and Cassandra stepped forward with her hands raised in peace. Even Leliana’s face softened to try and explain, but it was Cullen who spoke first. 

“My lord, please,” he tried, steeling his features as Max turned his gaze. Max saw it instantly, the quick glance to Dorian, who shifted ever so slightly at his side. _Betrayal_ his instincts screamed, but he shoved the thought away. Dorian would not...could not. “We needed you,” Cullen said as he turned his gaze back to Maxwell, sparing only a moment on Dorian again. It was all Max needed to connect the dots. 

In a rush, he felt his wrath fall away. His heart plummeted. He stepped back quickly, glancing between Cullen and Dorian before he finally focused on his beloved. The mage looked like he could cry, his eyes wide in sorrow as he watched Max. Dorian stepped forward, his fingertips brushing over his arm before Maxwell yanked away and retreated a few feet. 

“Maxwell,” Leliana sighed as she stepped forward, her eyes hard again. Business. This was only business and politics. If it suited the plan to save the world, she would drive a dagger through his heart right at this moment. Maxwell knew it. He stepped back away, feeling his trust wither as she spoke, “We needed you to return. You are the secret weapon we need. Solas may or may not have any idea where you might be, but it doesn’t matter. Tevinter is too dangerous, regardless, and Dorian will be managing our affairs there. Not you. You will go to Ferelden with Cullen and handle our affairs there. 

“I suppose I could’ve sent Iron Bull. But I didn’t want you to come back against your will...Max, you must understand, we need you here. Not just us, but the entire world. Solas intends to destroy it, and only we can stop him. Does that mean nothing to you?” 

Maxwell let his eyes drop to the ground as he considered the truth before they rose to meet Dorian’s. The mage swallowed thickly, shaking his head slowly. “Amatus, I’m sorry, but we can still-” 

“You lied to me,” Maxwell murmured. He felt his eyes fill with tears, and he struggled to remain calm. His voice shook, and he felt humiliated as he saw Josephine's and Cassandra’s pity. “You...You didn’t want me. _Amatus_...What a fucking lie,” his voice shook until it broke, and he couldn’t stop the tears spilling down his tears even if he tried. He wiped them away, his shame, his weakness, trying to keep his composure. “I just wanted to be Maxwell...I just wanted to be with you, again. And you used my heart f-for this. What were you thinking when you said you’d never leave again?” He snapped. Dorian covered his mouth, eyes closing as he turned away. Maxwell could see the tears on his cheeks, and his heart broke as he refused to comfort him. His soul screamed to go to Dorian, but he turned away and stalked out.


End file.
